


Death of a Champion

by DemureWitch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:45:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5372447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemureWitch/pseuds/DemureWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke was lost at Adamant. His friends, family, lover — were not present and have yet to learn of the event.</p><p>(Post events of Here Lies the Abyss)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Letter

Varric had begun writing letter after letter shortly after the events of Adamant Fortress. He did so as quickly as he could, but that wasn’t very quick as he spent a good deal of time finding the best words he could. He read each over once or twice, before sloppily adding his name to the ending and enclosing it with a seal. Though, he didn’t think the Inquisition’s seal would do for the occasion. It just didn’t seem right. He took the additional time to hastily create his own, pouring wax onto a small iron plate which he had received from the blacksmith, and pressed it onto the paper as best he could. It was a sloppy process, but faster than creating a new seal. Besides, it would serve its purpose.

He had asked Leliana to use her many resources to try to keep the news as quiet as was manageable, as he didn’t want word of the “Champion’s” death spread all throughout Thedas before he could properly inform those who needed to be informed, to which she kindly obliged. Isabela, Merrill, Anders, Aveline, Carver… They were not letters he was highly keen on writing, but they deserved to hear it from him. He was going to grant them that, at least, as it was all he had in his power to do.

He had managed his way through most of them without breaking down, and his resolve held strong despite the unruly emotions storming inside him. A small pile of folded papers had formed in the corner of his desk, away from his writing space, and as he set another on top and retrieved a fresh piece of parchment, he realized he had reached the final letter — the one he had been most dreading. He didn’t know where to start. Hell, he didn’t know where to end. For someone always overflowing with words, a distinguished and well published author, he was at a complete loss. Shifting in his seat, he gave a deep sigh and dipped his quill into near empty ink, and began to write: just as slowly and carefully as when he had first started, hours before.

_Fenris._

Hours of thinking and writing later, as his hand came to a stop, his eyes skimmed back over the words, and he felt disgust boil inside him. This wasn’t good enough. It was much too direct, rushed, noticeably so. Not nearly what the poor elf deserved. But what more could he say? Varric knew that, gifted with words though he was, they wouldn't be of any help. More than likely, he was probably still out and about on his business of hunting slavers, oblivious to Hawke's leaving, and the danger he had put himself in. Danger that finally caught up to him. Varric hoped he would be alright. Once his business with the Inquisition was through, he had several important visits to make.  
  
With a final grunt of dissatisfaction in regards to his work, he hastily began to fold the letter. Reaching out for the small metal plate without a thought — which had been heating as he wrote — his fingers closed down around the hot metal and his skin burned. With a sharp hiss he withdrew his hand, sending the iron plate clattering loudly to the stone floor as the dwarf nearly fell out of his seat. “Shit,” After shaking his reddened fingers for a moment, he placed his head in his hands and felt his eyes grow wet.

“Ser?” A voice sounded behind him, causing him to jump once more, and some of his blank parchment drifted onto the floor. “Is everything alright?” asked the officer, who had probably heard his blunder from outside the room.

Varric sat in silence for a moment before answering. “Just fine.” He said a bit too harshly, his voice cracking as he withdrew his face from his hands. Plucking up his quill once more, he scribbled Fenris’ name onto the outside of the letter. “Please have this letter sealed, and deliver it and the others to the spymaster. She knows where they are to be sent.” With that, he threw down his quill back onto the desk and stood abruptly from his seat, passing by the man who nodded in response to the command, not thanking him as he ordinarily would have.

He needed a drink.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. The Storm

Varric wasn’t wrong about Fenris’ whereabouts, assuredly. The elf had made a habit of — an occupation of, really — hunting down slavers wherever he could find them and freeing those caught in their midst. He did this for none other than himself and those he could free, for merely the thought of slavers made his skin crawl, and the presence of them, well, made it glow. Though that didn’t mean he didn’t make the occasional few sovereigns or silvers off of his endeavors, for the act of slavery was still technically illegal and there were always bounties to be collected. After all, the deed took a great deal of travelling, of searching; it was not as though criminal smugglers made it known where they were to be, especially not where they were to be with their cargo. For this, he needed coin, and he was not to be seen dining or serving or anything of that sort.   
  
All he had ever done was fight. For his life, for his freedom, for his friends: it was all he had known and all he knew, and the saving of Kirkwall and his newfound life had not changed that.  
  
On this day in particular he found himself stuck mid-travel, sat at the bar of a small ramshackle inn, pint of ale in hand. That which delayed him was a vicious storm raging outside it's walls, which groaned loudly in protest with each new gust of wind. Sat nearest to the wall, keeping to himself as best he could manage in the crowded room — travelers of all sorts having found their way there for shelter — he took a gulp of his drink, the burning it started in the back of his throat all too familiar a feeling.   
  
Sparing a glance out of a darkened window, he hoped for the storms prompt passing, for he was near to Kirkwall and wanted for home. The only home he had ever been proud and happy to have: which took shape in the form of a big, scruffy man.  
  
                                                                            ***  
  
"Sure, become an inquisition scout! Oh, an inquisition scout, what a lovely job that — ngh — sounds like. Bloody brilliant."  
  
Lightning flashed brightly, and struck loudly, too bright, too loud. Ryon shielded his eyes from the blast and quickly attempted to regain his view on the area, his grip to the rain soaked rocks slipping from between his fingers.   
  
"Dammit," he grunted, pressing his body closer to the face of the steep, jagged hill he was climbing. He had seen the storm coming in, but overestimated the time he had before its arrival. Now he found himself stuck barely halfway to the crest of the hill and in unrelenting and uncooperative weather.   
  
The bolts of lightning were getting too close for his liking and he itched to inch his way back down and find some sort of shelter. That, however, would equate to hours or more of wasted time, depending on the length of the storm, and Leliana's favorite words flashed through his mind.  
  
Haste and efficiency.   
  
"Oh, eat my arse..." he grumbled to himself, loosening his grip further to start his descent down the hill. The journey back downwards proved almost instantaneously that it was to be more treacherous than he had anticipated, and when he fell, the undelivered letter he carried wrinkled beneath his body. 


End file.
